A World at War
by EmelineCarter92
Summary: A collection of one shots! Takes place during season two. Mary and Matthew's thoughts during the war and their struggles. Pre-Forever and Ever and Second Chances, so eventually off cannon.
1. What's it like?

"What's it like?"

Matthew turned to her. Surprised that she was asking such a question. He's a bit shocked because, one, it was Mary, two, he wasn't prepared. He had no doubt she could probably handle it. He had written to her about how big the rats were in the trenches, that the soldiers would use them for practice. He knew it wouldn't make her squeamish, because she liked the thrill of the hunt, being an avid hunter.

That's what you were made into out there. He could not put it into words. It was just 'out there' or back there' what it was referred to, never war.

No one had ever asked him about it. It wasn't something to be spoken of. He tried to keep his face passive, his eyes, ever expressive, he tries to hide what ever could be there. He knows they would betray him.

He had to look away from her for a moment.

Mary could see that his eyes looked haunted. When he turns his head away, she can still see his gaze, it's far away.

When he turns back, it's as if he has difficulty making eye contact with her, like he didn't trust himself. His eyes would shift back and forth, to everywhere else and then, finally back to her.

"The things is...I just can't talk about it."

She nodded. Some things were not to be said. "Have you missed us?"

"What do you think?

"I'm glad to see that you're happy."

Was he?

Downton felt even more like a dream. Back there was real. It had become all he knew.


	2. If I could Die a Happy Man

He went to the church the next morning. He had left earlier, to light a candle, for those who had lost their lives, to pray for himself. He saw Mary as he entered the church. She was kneeling in front of the candles, a few already lit. She had the same idea as he had. They didn't speak to each other. He just knelt beside her and lit a few himself.

That afternoon after the church service, she saw him off at the train station. He admitted that she was surprised to have ran into her, that she even stayed for the sermon. It was hard for one to believe in God in times like this. He still did, despite everything. He felt a comfort, a relief, however brief.

"They were surprised to see me." She hadn't gone to the church for some sign or some spiritual guidance. She had gone to light a few candles in honor of the boys she and her sisters had grown up with, the ones that had already fallen.

If the soul existed, (what was the soul, was there an afterlife?) and it lingered, she hoped that those who were lost could see that light, and know that they were missed.

He would be missed. Though he's just going away, and would be back on leave again before long. She couldn't quite say goodbye, neither what she felt for him. It would ruin things, she felt. They were doing so well now. Still she wanted to give him something, to think of her.

"I wanted to give you this." She reached into her pocket and took out a stuffed dog. "It's my good luck charm." How she wished that she could touch his hand, that she wasn't wearing gloves, so that she could touch his warm skin. Take it with her, the last memory of him. To know that this was real. That they could part friends and she wouldn't regret if something were to happen...no, nothing will happen, he'll be alright. "I've had it always, so you must bring it back without a scratch."

He smiled at the small gesture. She would need it more than him. He didn't need a good luck charm. "Won't you need it?"

She loves the smile he makes. "Not as much as you. So look after it. Please."

"I'll try not to be a hero, if that's what you're afraid of." He couldn't make that promise. Suppose he was saying that for her benefit.

"Did you have a happy time yesterday?

"I had...you showed me very fond memories of a life I thought I would never have. For a middle class lawyer." They were both smiling now. But then his expression changed to a serious one, "Mary if I don't come back..." She tried to interrupt him so he stopped her. It would only make this more difficult. "Don't. If I don't come back, I want you to remember how very glad you made me. That we made up before we couldn't get the chance. I mean it. You've sent me off to war a happy man." He started to turn away but he turned back.

"Will you do something for me? Will you look after mother? If anything happens." His eyes show with tears, trying to hide his fear. More for his mother than himself, he supposes. Because she would have no one else in the world. He wanted to know that she would be looked after.

"Of course we will. She's family. But it won't."

"You're still young Mary. You'll find someone."

The whistle blows for the train.

He sensed that she wanted to say something but he doesn't want to ruin the moment. There was nothing else they could say.

"Goodbye then." She walked closer to him, kissing him on the cheek. "And such good luck."

"Goodbye Mary, and God bless you." The gesture should calm him. He was afraid of the uncertainty of his survival. Everyday in the trenches and the dug out, death was always a possibility. It could be any moment, a snipers bullet, many men prayed for, that it would be quick and clean.

She could be sending him off to die. He was glad that she was sending him off happy. He would die a happy man.

He still had a sense of impending doom. He took off his hat, staring off, imagining it already, back into that endless hell. He leaned his head against the train window as it started to pull away from the station. Thinking of her made it a little bearable. He thought of her kiss. The kiss she had planted on his cheek. A kiss a cousin would give. But it still burned where her lips had touched. She filled his mind. Why Mary?

But of course, it had always been Mary.


	3. Nothing Prepares You

The hospital room was packed with beds, it was almost unrecognizable if it weren't for the wood paneled walls. He had visited his mother as she had worked at the village cottage hospital at times. He was proud that his mother was helping, contributing in the war effort as she had in the South African war, as had his father. Both sacrificing their time with him, (he had had a lonely childhood. He had wished he could have helped or could have joined. He had missed the age requirement by one year. It had ended when he was seventeen. When he was younger he had been left in the care of neighbors) risking their lives. It was because of this he had enlisted, a sense of duty he felt he owed to his father. Since his father had died, in 1906 of cancer, and it had been him and his mother, she had been making up for that time.

Now that he was home for now, he wanted to help.

"Oh, Matthew." His mother her way over to him as soon as she saw him, "as you can see I'm very busy!"

"I just wanted to help." He cut across but she was already making her way over to her next patient, helping doctor Clarkson and an orderly, lift a soldier onto a bed.

She thinks she'll have more time with him later.

He made his way in and out between the beds. He can't help but look down at the soldiers in them.

He wanted to help, anyway he could, maybe offer kind words, words that he hadn't been able to, to his dying men.

He looks away, it's too overwhelming.

The reality if it hits him hard, the brutality of what war does to a body. All these injured men, some of them would be forever broken, marred by it.

_You think you'd get used it. Then it hits you. Nothing prepares you. _

It hits him. It almost takes his breath away. He overs his mouth in shock, almost equal parts terror.

The air became stifling as more soldiers were being led in. Claustrophobic like the trenches, packed with bodies.

He's almost back there, when he hears Sybil's voice. It pulls him back.

"Matthew, are you busy?"

He runs his hand over his face, shakes his head, as it to further keep the images at bay. He helps a soldier in to one of the beds. "You're quite safe."

Only, was he saying that to the soldier or himself?

He hears Sybil saying to Branson, "I can never go back to that again."

None of them could go back to the life they knew.

* * *

"How was it? At the hospital today?"

Matthew hesitates, unsure how to answer. He stares, blankly, trying to search for the words. He feels his mouth moving but no words come out.

This was Robert. It was just them. He can talk to him. He's seen what he's seen, done what he's done, maybe just as worse. Even so, he could not bring himself to look at the older man. But he feels his eyes on him.

"At the front," He pauses a moment, men prayed to be spared, of course." His eyes move as if he can see the men lying before them, he could hear their dying screams. "but if that's not meant to be, they pray for a bullet that kills them cleanly." He sees Robert nod in understanding. But he really couldn't. This war was different. He looks at Robert briefly, "For far too many of them today, that prayer won't be answered." Men where still out there fighting, and here he was, sitting in splendor. He was still here.

He himself had prayed for such a death.

But he had taken lives. He'd made sure that they wouldn't suffer, make it clean. He wondered if he deserved such a fate now.

And most times it doesn't bother him, talking about the war. He told Robert one evening that he had lost his soldier servant. As if he's talking about needing to replace his secretary.

"Sorry to hear about your soldier servant." Robert said at dinner.

"Pneumonia. Not a bullet. I don't envy him." _It's the most common in a war. There are worst ways to die. _


	4. Survivors Guilt

_June 1916_

Matthew had gotten three days off on leave, barely enough time to get caught up with him. Mary felt. As always he was usually silent but he also seemed rather angry.

After dinner, she joined him in the drawing room. Exactly like the last time he was here. She wondered what he found so fascinating, staring at the fire. He wasn't really seeing it at all, she discovered. His eyes fluttered to her. How strange it took a moment for them to register her.

"Do you know what they call it, "The war that would end by Christmas. The war to end all wars. The arm chair generals call it. They're referred to as such because they sit and do nothing, most think they don't know what they're doing." The anger seeped through his voice. It was so unlike him. She supposed being in those unbearable conditions for so long would make anyone. He was being quite vague. She couldn't decipher where he was going with this.

Still, it was a change from last year, where he wouldn't mention the war to her at all.

"I had to write a letter for another friend. To his mother. Told her that he died a heroic death."

That would explain it, his morose mood. How many letters had he written? How many of them had he seen die?

"I lied." He continued. "Suppose I should have..."

"No." She sat down next to him. "You did the right thing. What good would that have done except add to the families grief and pain? And it wouldn't have brought him back."

"Perhaps you're right." In a way they were brought back, in his sleepless nights, awaking from the nightmares. "If I hadn't hesitated, it would have been me."

"Thank God, it wasn't." His eyes darkened.

"I stopped to pray because I was afraid."

"You've been brave for so long, Matthew. Don't blame yourself for one break in your courage." She put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it before she left.

He never once felt brave, at least had felt like he was. And he didn't feel like it now. He ran his hand over his face, when she was out of sight, head in his hands. The exhaustion and misery revealed itself once he removed them. Leaning back against the sofa, he let out a sigh.

The white ceiling was replaced with the corrugated roof of the bunker.

A sleepiness night of shell and gun fire, he got up from his cot, and went back out into the trench. A few men were awake. Half could be sleeping or dead. The officer on watch, Bertie, as he was called, walked with him along the narrow walls as it had quieted. Then the night exploded once more. He was ordering his men out of the trenches, out in to the line of fire. It's the first time he thinks, this could be certain death. It was closer than they had ever been. Too close. The last man went over the top, he found himself staring at the grey, starless sky, thinking of the ghastly landscape, of the noise, horror and death. He's been through three years of this. He should be used to it by now. But he stood petrified, unable to move.

Bertie leaned back over the trench, hovering just about the ladder, "Are you coming Captain?"

He said a silent prayer, thinking of her before he started to climb the first few rungs.

In those few seconds of hesitation, the rounds of machine gun fire came, (Matthew ducked down as far as he could, having dove down beside the ladder) and had pulverised half of Bertie's face.

It would have been him lying there, withering in agony. There wasn't anything he could do but continue on. He had gone on, into that grey hell.

_For as long as I live, I shall remember him and my fear that had killed him. And it should have killed me. I had tried writing to his mother several times, one told her the truth that I had ended up throwing away, the other I had recently written, told her a lie, he had died instantly when actually he lingered a day or two._

_I had visited him. Which probably hadn't been a good idea. He just stared at me with his one eye, that seemed to accuse. I will never forget that look._

At the sound of a door opening, he jumped slightly.

"Sorry, I must have fallen asleep."

"His Lordship was looking for you. He wonders if you would like to join him for a drink."

"Tell him I'll be there in a moment."

During the concert they held the next afternoon, two women started handing out white feathers. Robert noticing what was going on, had the band stop playing.

"Stop this at once!" He shouted at the women. "This is neither the time or the place."

"These people should be aware that there are cowards among them."

"Will you please leave? You are the cowards here, not they." He gave a nod to William and Daniel.

Matthew stood in quite appreciation. _They're not expected to go off to fight, and get mowed down by machine guns and ripped to shreds by shells and artillery, so how dare they call them cowards?_

He had heard some instances where the presentation of a white feathers back fired. One was presented to a man in civvies that had recently received the Victoria Cross for his heroic actions. Another man said "We don't get many of these in the trenches." He had twirled the feather in his fingers, showing it off to him as if he were proud of the souvenir.

"Leader, will you continue?"

On their way out, one of them handed one to Tom, who stood by the door. "I'm wearing a uniform." He stated.

"Wrong kind." One of the women said, giving a smirk.

His last day arrived way too soon. Tomorrow morning he would be sent back. They both wanted to make the best of it. But he just hovered over her, a bit quiet, as he watched her at work with her duties, pouring the jugs of water for the soldiers into glasses.

"Well, aren't you quite the Florence Nightingale."

_Be careful, Captain Crawley, people could accuse you of flirting._ She silently thought to herself. "We all do what we can to help here. It was all Mama's idea."

"They're giving me another three days next month. I'll be staying in London."


	5. A proposal

_July 1916_

The Colonel had Matthew on a mission, he couldn't tell her what, understandably. Everything had to stay tight lipped. It wasn't that he didn't trust her, he couldn't risk being compromised; he would later tell her.

_"Maybe after the war I can tell you."_ He never would.

He had three days off on leave.

_"I will return to battle the happiest man in the world..._He didn't write alive, but there had been a small dot where the pen had hovered as if using the word itself would be tempting fate. _"if you would do me the honor of meeting me in London."_

Mary had told her parents that she was spending a few days in London with an old friend, which was technically true, and wouldn't be back till the day after tomorrow. On the train ride to meet him at King's Cross she wondered what possibly could be urgent that he needed to invite her to London. He wouldn't be thinking of THAT. And there was no way he was going to propose. She didn't want to get her hopes up, not that she downright rejected it. She didn't know how she'd react if he asked. Would he ever dare to open his heart again, would she?

The only way was to face it. Carson's voice sprang into her mind. _To fear love is to fear life._ She should tell him how she feels before it's to late and if he's killed in battle, Carson said he might be, she'd regret it all her life.

She couldn't tell him but she could show him. But in what way?

He wasn't at the station to great her. She entered the hotel he said he'd be staying. The lobby was crowded with other soldiers on leave and their young sweethearts. It took more than a few seconds to find him. Their eyes locked as he step off the lift. She would never forget those eyes. Nobody else had them.

_I couldn't imagine a moment more perfect and wonderful as he stepped off a lift. Only he could make the simple action of stepping off a lift immaculate and wonderful, standing there in his uniform, his eyes sparkling, all smiles, he tilts his cap. I wish he'd drop the formalities and come to me, so I can be sure that he's real._

_Without hesitation he makes his way over and takes my hand, pulling me to him._

_He is here. My Matthew._

_He wraps his arms around me and I stayed for the most glorious time. I felt safe. I felt loved._

She looked more beautiful every time he saw her. Was it that time was precious, that any moment could be the last, or time suited her? He hoped it was the former. It would be good to know that she aged well. Though that didn't really matter to him. She would still look beautiful with age, like a fine wine or cheese. _Better not tell her the last bit. Nobody wanted to be compared to moldy old cheese. I'd mess things up again. _He feared that he would. He prayed her answer would be yes or and she didn't think he was only asking her because of the war. He didn't know if he could take the rejection. But he very much believed that the fates were working with him. _If these few days were all we had left together, I could have these last moments with her, I would have something to play in my mind, if I were to die..._

He mentally shook off the thought as he finally released her. He led her to two double doors, where music had begun to play. Anna pretended to lose sight of them. Mary saw her back over her shoulder, struggling through the crowd that was now dispersing, following close behind them to enter the ballroom. She knew she was pretending. Mary caught one last glimpse of her before the doors swung close. Anna's gaze read, I'll keep a look out.

They had gone over this, that Anna would keep a safe distance and would come to warn her if she saw anyone they knew.

_"Don't do anything I wouldn't." _Anna had teased her after she had helped her pack.

_"I wouldn't do to Mr. Bates what you wouldn't do."_ Mary had given her a wink. She was glad that they could finally be together. Anna and Bates had fought long and hard to get their marriage license approved as Bates had been divorced and it would look poorly on Lord Grantham if he were to approve of it, as the Church of England disapproved of a woman or man re-marrying to a divorcee. And then there was the circumstances of the divorce. His wife had divorced him while he was in prison for thievery and public drunkenness and assaulting a police officer. The last one had been false as he had tripped into the police officer and it was interpreted as assault. That had been in his darkest days and far behind him. If Anna said so, Mary believed it. Matthew offered to provide help if he could, seek out an attorney for them if need be. He knew lots of professional ones, some of the best ones. He remembered his contacts to start of correspondence with them, thanks to his eidetic memory. Mary had refused. She didn't want to writing letters, making inquires while guns were firing at him and bombs and shells falling on him.

She still couldn't imagine him surrounded by all that violence and devastation. She couldn't even began to imagine the horrors. It goes without saying. He wasn't able to talk to her about it a few years ago, it must be that horrible.

He was here with her now. These next few days, they should put all thoughts of the war behind them. She was going to enjoy the music and dancing and her time with him.

_We spent our first night drinking cocktails and dancing. Everyone watched us, spellbound._

At least that's what it felt like to her. They were the most beautiful couple in the room to be envied. Where they a couple?

_I didn't care about the whispers and glances as we took the lift together up to his room. We danced cheek to cheek to a gramophone record. Don't you ever get tired of dancing?" I ask. He says, Never." He spins me round. I can't but detect something incomplete in his voice like an unanswered question. He suddenly stopped so that we were face to face, I can feel his warm breath. I think that he is going to kiss me. Then he turns away and heads over to a pair of French doors, leading out to a balcony. Opening them, a cool breeze enters, grazing my shoulders. And I imagine that they are his warm hands instead of cold icy ones._

_He nods his head in the direction of outside and reaches out for my hand once more. "Come." He simply says._

_His quietness is slightly scaring me. It's better than the silence I guess. My fear soon dissipates as I take it and follow him out._

_There was a beautiful table adorned with a white table cloth and candles, dinner set up and more bottles of the champagne._

"Matthew where did you...?"

"Courtesy of the Colonel." Going over to her, he took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. He even pulled out her chair for her. "You and I are the only ones who make sense. I've never been able to talk to anyone the way I talk to you. Isn't that the way it's suppose to be?"

She nodded, "I should hope so."

His eyes flickered up to her.

After finishing their meal, he got down on one knee. "I don't have a ring yet. I've been saving up for one, one pacifically. I pass by it when I'm on leave, it's at a shop here." _And imagine how beautiful it would look on your finger. "_but...would you marry me? I understand if you don't..."

"Oh, Matthew."

He looked down at the ground._ She's going to say no, that it's too late for us._

"Yes! Yes, I will!"

He lifts his head as if he cannot believe what she is saying. She herself is surprised by her answer it all feels like a dream.

_We drink more Champaign and gaze up at the stars. Then he turns his head and kisses me. His kiss is gentle, not possessive or filled with lust, it is one of love and yearning for human touch, that human connection. He's not just marrying me because of the war. I'm sure he'd marry me under different circumstances. I tell myself but I'm not so sure._

_I'm reassured when he kisses me again, my faith restored as I feel his body pressed close to mine. His tongue works it's way into my mouth, his hand caress my shoulders, just as I had longed half an hour before, his breath on my neck._

He suddenly withdraws, "I don't want to take advantage of you."

Him, take advantage of her? She has to refrain herself from laughing. He'd think she was laughing at him, then she'd have to explain. He'd withdraw his proposal. But she would have to tell him sometime, before they were married. She could not trap him. They could elope, then she could tell him tonight or tomorrow, if he agreed. If he took her now instead, she wouldn't have to tell him. _No. That wouldn't be fair or honest either, it wouldn't be right._ Then she would be taking advantage of him.

She was still burning with passion. She wanted him. If this was to be their last night, she wanted to.

"I want to..."

"We should wait until after we're married, after the war."

_Matthew Crawley, always the prude._ Why was she angry? She quickly discovers that she's not angry with him, it's at herself._ Either way I tell him, I will lose his love._

"Why can't we now? Get married? Everyone's doing it these days. You can buy the ring later when you can afford it."

"Your father will love that. And your grandmother won't be particularly happy. They'd want it to be a family affair..."

"Let's just forget about them. For now. Can't we just...You should know that none of us are promised tomorrow, especially you. If something happens..."

"Nothing will happen to me." He touches her shoulders again. "After the war." She gathers the strength to look at him, his eyes were shadowed, hooded with some kind of darkness in them, then they sparkled again when he smiled. Or was it just the candle light? "Let's go inside. It's getting cold."

He blows out the candles. It suddenly feels like he's gone cold. _Only the trick of the light. _She pulls the jacket tightly around her and heads inside.

As he blows out the candles it seems he's completely plunged into darkness. He could almost see the walls of the dugout as his eyes adjust, icy fingers tightening their grip. A waxy dead finger instead of a candle, the finger attached to a hand curled around a St Joseph's pendent as he pulls it out of the ground. He almost sees it reaching out to him in the dark. He stands, leaning over the table for a second, rubbing a hand over his eyes. It vanishes when the light from the hotel room streams out onto the balcony and he hears her voice.

He feels his hand is resting in a puddle of something wet. A glass had tipped over. He must have been shaking the table. How could he not have realised or remembered? What was wrong with him? He was never forgetful.

He wiped it up the best he could and headed inside. Shutting the double doors behind them, locking them, he didn't look at her immediately while he gathered his bearings.

"What took you so long? Didn't you hear me calling you?"

He wanted to tell her what had just happened, wanted her to hold him as he told her all the horrible things, wanted to cry. He'd seen injured men in the hospitals laughing or crying hysterically, fighting imaginary things that weren't there, only in their mind. He was nothing like that. He wasn't weak. He wasn't falling apart.

_It's nothing. I'm just exhausted. Lack of sleep will make you see things. _He felt his own face betray him, forming a fake smile on it's own. _This will become common. We become lairs. We must lie._

"Spilled the wine. Clumsy old me." He sat down on the bed and took of his shoes.

"What do we do now?" She asked, amusement in her voice, at the same time pretending to be bored.

"You tell me." He lied back, drawing his arms back to adjust the pillows. "Would you mind staying up with me for awhile?"

_We lied in the same bed but didn't make love, holding each other for warmth. The temperature seemed to drop more by the hour and the fire didn't quite do the trick. He was shaking more than I was. You'd think being out in harsh conditions that he'd be used to it._

_I got up to check the window to see if there was maybe a draft. I didn't find any. I started to draw the curtains closed when he says,_

_"No. Don't...Keep them open. So we can look at the stars."_

_"Wonderful idea."_

_I go back to lie down next to him. He pulls me to him, putting his arms around me in a brief hug, before he turns away from me. After a while he tells me that I should go back to my room._

_As I did, I am left wondering what I did wrong._

* * *

"No. Don't..." He nearly shouted the words. "Keep them open. So we can look at the stars." He doesn't want to say, so I can look at the stars. He doesn't want to sound weak or pathetic. He gives her a hug before pulling away from her. He doesn't deserve her.

Could they really find happiness after the war? Could he really by his old self? He feels that part of what made him himself had died or was in the process of dying, being slowly snuffed out. He feels he had taken advantage of her anyway, in a different way, giving her hope, that everything would be normal again.

He spent the last morning with his army mates in a café for breakfast after he had seen Mary safely off. He cracked his egg with the spoon without looking, paying attention to a joke one of them said. It was when he looked at it, the small hole in the shell, the spider web like cracks, one section caved in...a bottle hole to the head, a cracked skull...

He got up as fast as he could to make it to the restroom. He just about make it to the toilet. The contents of his stomach, which was just water, and fortunately not his breakfast, emptied through his mouth and nose.

He stepped out of the restroom to see Thatchley "Thatch" he was called, and Harris headed his way. They were close enough that they probably had heard him retching.

"Careful now Crawley. Good thing you're not a woman or people would think that you're in a family way..."

"If you're referring to the woman I saw off at the train station, nothing happened."

"Sure it did."

"She's my cousin."

"Keep telling yourself that. Davies' parents and Grandparents are cousins."

"Could be a stomach bug. You should go check that out to stay on the safe side. We're gonna need all the man power we can get to knock those Krauts back."

Would everything always remind him about the war? Would the war always haunt him?

* * *

_1920_

_I knew now that it was because of the war, the fear of being plunged into complete darkness, when he had asked me to keep the curtains open that night. Not because of the nightmare he had on our wedding night or because Bates would routinely keep them open during the many nights during his recovery. It was from a letter he had sent be, after our engagement. I had re-discovered it while re-reading old letters he had sent to me._

_I'm going to write them down in case something happens to it, so that I shall always have them._

_I'm writing to you by candle light. I often find myself caught up in what I am writing to you until the candle wick burns down to a stub or flickers out. The dugout plunges into complete darkness. It's so dark. No light penetrates but you, you are the light that keeps me going._

_Before I come back home on leave, I scratch the days until I see you into a wooden post. And when it gets dark, I look at the stars and think of you._

I'm so_ afraid._

It's crossed out in black but that's what I think it says, not blocked out by the censors but by his own hand. What were you afraid of, my love? What are you still afraid of?

_I have a dreadful feeling that something is coming, that I might not see England again, or you or mother. I think this may be it, my dear girl. And if it is I want you to promise me...I want you to be brave and strong and I want you to go on and marry a man who is worthy of you and will care for you and tell you he loves you every night and when you wake each morning. You mustn't be frightened by my words. I have thought about keeping this letter somewhere safe so that they will find it _on...my body, but_ then I worry that it will never be found and you will never know what I wanted to tell you. What I can tell you but not now. I have to see you. And if I live I'll be the one to hold you in my arms and tell you that I love you everyday and when I wake up because love is the most precious._

_Until then I will continue to write again and again until the stub of my pencil runs down to a stub and the candle dies, though my love for you never will. Though it might flicker and threaten to go out, we will carry on as we always do, in this life and in the next, my darling._

_Eternally yours,_

_Matthew._

* * *

_Why hold on to this letter, you may ask, the one I hold most dear to my heart, when it's filled with loss and despair, loss of hope. It showed how much he had survived, what we both had survived. He was the man who took care of me and told me he loved me every night and when I wake each morning. And I tell him the same._


End file.
